


already gone.

by aPaperCupCut



Series: Slenderman Mythos Stories [2]
Category: Marble Hornets, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Alternate Personality, Feels, Gen, Introspection, Manipulation, Pining, Sad Ending, Secrets, Watching Someone Sleep, also can be titled 'missed chances and what couldve been', dont expect much from this im just terrible at summaries, first chap is set before brian/hoody finds the medical folder, i feel a lot of things for these two ok, masky uses they/them, nobody is happy, regret and sadness, second is years after mh, thats for masky btw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aPaperCupCut/pseuds/aPaperCupCut
Summary: There was a time in their lives when they were close. Tim was a liar only by the fault of his own memory, and Brian was the one to cover his eyes and to hide from his fear.What happens when it never mattered? What is left when it's already gone?Or, Tim knew about Masky. It doesn't change much.





	1. Chapter 1

Brian - or Hoody, but he's not quite sure of that yet - leans over his friend, watching him as he sleeps. The other shifts in their sleep, completely unaware of him. 

It's after another venture, another attempt at dissuading that kid from poking his nose into places he shouldn't, another attempt at locating what their ally calls “the ark.” Tim hadn't recognized him, when he knocked on the door - same as all the other times. But it only took a few moments for his companion to come back, and that was all Brian cares about. 

hey mumble; Brian has moved closer, quite unintentionally. He watches his hand hover, knowing full well the consequences of waking his friend. It's too soon for them to come back - as much as he wants them to. Tim’s too… present. Even now, as half-heard words tumble out of their mouth, he can tell it all comes from Tim. His friend is no sleep talker. 

Brian retreats, sitting back on his heels, perched on the bedside table. He represses a smile, remembering the first time they met: not Tim and Brian, no, but when he and they met. They had been so awkward, so quiet; he hadn't known at the time that they are  _always_ quiet, so he had been so afraid of scaring them off. He had needed them, had needed them for help - for company, for a presence, something familiar and comforting. The other he only knew as “To The Ark” was no comfort, no friend of his. And they probably never would be.

But Tim? His old friend, from that time when reality bent and he nearly lost his name? Yes, he desired his friend’s company. 

It was only when he had paused, and remembered - Tim didn't remember that. Tim had barely spoken to him after they had graduated. Tim wouldn't help. But he knew something that  _would_ help him.

Tim turns in his sleep, and Brian can't help the grin that forms under his mask. Strapped across his shoulder is the bag that holds his friend’s own caricature of a face, and he can feel the weight of it like a hot compress on his side. Again, he fidgets and  _wishes_ his companion would stay with him - just a bit longer, what could it hurt? But it would hurt, it would damage. If Tim woke up, if his companion could not keep fending off the sickness…

So much could go wrong, if they did not return home. 

Brian sighs, and makes an aborted attempt at rubbing his temples. The pills he had taken were beginning to wear off, but he has more stashed away back at his own hiding place. He casts a tempted eye to the dresser in the corner of the room, but keeps his itching hands still. Tim needs to refill, and despite his own need, he couldn't stand by and let his friend suffer another seizure. Those were so painful to see, so painful because he could do nothing… 

Oh well. The sun was beginning to peek through the shaded window, and Tim would no doubt begin to wake soon. As much as he wished to get to know the side of his friend that he had once known so well, he had no time. 

No time, because the Ark awaited, and so much work needed to be attended to. 

Brian, in a moment of impulsiveness, gently runs his fingers through his friend's hair, the foreign feeling of strands felt through thick gloves sending shivers down his spine. They stirred, eyelids flickering - but he was already gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

The flicker of mustard yellow catches Tim’s eye as he walks past, and he halts before he can really think about it. His gaze is locked on the window of the storefront, a little known thrift store he's never gone into before. He feels an itch, to go in, to see if he was right - if what he saw was really what he thought it was. If it really was that, an old relic from the past, emerging into reality like it had never been missing in the first place. 

The thought shakes him, and he's thinking too much. Of old years. Of times he has almost forgotten. But he hasn't forgotten -- he could never forget. Maybe he's just been pretending.

He squeezes his eyes shut. The taste of mud in his mouth, and he can see the building; not yet burned out, not yet hollow. When everyone skirted around him, whispers following him, even when he started school, even when he had so fervently  _hoped_ he could be normal. But nobody ever thought he could be. Not then, at least, and for the short he had thought -- well.

School, before -- before that, before that skinny guy who used to snort and make fun of his hair -- school was a nightmare. Sometimes they'd grab his backpack, lift him off his feet, throw him. They'd shake his bag, and he would hear all the pills shaking in their bottles with it -- the sound burns in his memory. He swallows back the sour taste. 

Tim had been so excited for college --  _finally_ a chance in a different town, away from his old peers and old surroundings. Of course, his first two years there were hell. What else had he even thought it would be? He should've known.

His first -- and last -- roommate had thought he'd been selling drugs. He nearly got kicked out of the school, before he had been forced to share nearly every medical document proving he needed the pills. Even when the guy had apologized, he had requested a single, and it had been granted. After that, he didn't bother with people. Everyone he had been befriending before then had heard about the whole humiliating experience, and if they weren't put off by the whole ‘this guy's a fucking freak,’ they were by his own responding distance. He just was sick of hoping and then being crushed.

Meeting Brian had been by complete accident. They had run into each other -- literally. Tim had been rushing home after another class he had lost interest in, keeping his head down, no interest in lingering on campus. Brian had been slowly making his way to the film club room, carrying way too many boxes to see where he was going. And they had crashed into each other, throwing supplies every which way -- Tim’s bag, already falling apart, burst open, and the boxes spilled their contents, and their resulting tumble over each other’s legs mixed the mess up further.

“Shit -- god, sorry, man -- shit, _shit,_ ” Brian had hissed through pain, clambering to his knees, pulling Tim up in his confusion. “I'm so sorry.”

Tim had just waved a hand dismissively, face burning. He hurried to sort out his things, and they fell quiet, putting everything back into its place. Tim had nearly stopped breathing when he realized Brian had started collecting the scattered pill bottles, but sighed in relief when he didn't say anything, just handing them back to Tim like they were  _normal._ Tim had felt a strange rush of happiness at the bizarre gesture.

Finally, they stood up, shuffling awkwardly on their feet. Brian's boxes were stacked neatly on top of each other, and Tim had his bag in hand. He was just ready to awkwardly say goodbye and leave, when Brian said, “You look like the kind of guy who golfs!”

It was so out of left field -- Tim just stared.

“Um, I meant, uh, do -- do you enjoy golf?” Brian tried to back track, failing. “I -- oh, shit, I've really…”

Tim felt like laughing, but he was pretty sure doing that would be a dick move.

“I  _actually_ meant, do you… want to go golfing with me?” Brian was so red in the face, and Tim just felt confused.

hey stood in silence, Tim dead panning, Brian’s face growing redder and redder.

“I -- you know what, nevermind.” He bent, picking up the boxes with a grunt. Tim wondered for a moment -- and it felt like he was standing at a crossroads.

He could see himself turning around (god why hadn't he, why hadn't he? he wished he had), he could see himself reaching down and silently offering his help. He felt his body turn, readying to leave -- he didn't know this guy, it would be  _weird,_ nobody would judge him for it, etc, etc -- and then his mouth opened.

“Do you want some help?”

And they just grew from that. That, and they were both college students, who incidentally shared quite a few classes, and both had shared interests.

Before Tim knew it, by senior year, Brian was his best friend and was offering to roommate with him once they graduated. They were very close -- going out often for lunch together, choosing the same crappy places to work, and Tim kept forgetting he even had a dorm room because he slept over at Brian’s so often. They never did go golfing, though; Brian admitted he had just blurted the first thing that came to his head, and Tim had just laughed instead of asking why. (Why had Brian said anything at all? Or why had Brian stuck around -- or maybe why had  _Tim_ stuck around. The truth was, Tim had forgotten the why of any of it.)

And Tim had told him everything, and it hadn't even been hard. It hadn't even been a serious conversation.

“What do you take the pills for?”

It had been a late Saturday night, and they had a bowl of candy between them, binge watching cheesy horror flicks on Tim’s sputtering TV. Both were tired, and the question was asked without tension. Tim hadn’t even thought about lying.

“Oh -- that stuff? Uh, I got a lot of issues. Just stupid shit like, uh…” Tim sat up a little straighter, and counted off his fingers. “Seizures, that's an important one, depression -- not so bad, I just get bad episodes occasionally -- um, a few for anxiety, I have an odd one for schizophrenia, but it's just for a few of my hallucinations -- oh, but I do have one really weird one!”

Sometimes he thinks they might've been high, that night. Considering his spotty memory, and how relaxed he had felt -- he doesn't doubt it. It explained Brian asking after what was probably a year of persisting in  _not_ asking. Whatever it was that had led to it, Tim had told him everything he had known back then. Everything.

“I got a few for, and you’re not gonna believe this shit, I've got one for multiple-fucking-personalities. Well, it's called dissociative identity disorder, now, but you get the picture.”

Brian sat up, eyes suddenly alert. “Woah -- you're not kidding?”

“Nope,” Tim grinned, shaking his head. “They misdiagnosed me with some kinda schizophrenia when I was a kid, but when I was twelve, they figured it out.”

“Damn, man. What's it like?”

It was such an innocent question, so naive. And all Tim did was lean back, growing even more mellow, if that was possible. Yeah, looking back, Tim is pretty sure they'd been passing a joint throughout the night. Probably, no, definitely a bad idea with all the prescriptive drugs in his system -- but he wasn’t the smartest guy back then.

“Well, before they got it right, I had a lot of voices in my head. Hadn't even fucking noticed ‘em, before they changed my medication.”

“Are there any left?” Curious -- Brian had been such a curious guy. Sharp as a razor, too. Tim wished -- Tim  _wishes_ they'd never met. Maybe Brian would've gone on to become some famous actor, or a philanthropist, or something. Anything was better than what had happened.

Tim wishes he had just shut up.

“Oh, yeah, there's one. But they don't talk much. I don't even notice them, really. Don't bug me at all.”

Brian had scooted closer, almost resting his chin on Tim’s chest. Tim hadn't minded. “How do you know they're there?”

Tim laughed a little, a little breathless. At the time, he had wondered if Brian would come closer (he had wanted him to). He pointed at his temple, tapping it lightly. “I can feel ‘em! Moving around, sometimes more, sometimes less. They like the feeling, of shifting my brain goop around, I guess.”

Brian had smiled, against his chest, and suddenly the TV let out a spurt of noise. And they turned back to the movie, caught back up in the vivid debate on whether making a bet with the devil was worth it or not. Brian had thought it was, Tim hadn't. They ended that night by falling asleep, drooling on each other's shoulders.

Sometimes, when Tim remembers it, his heart aches more powerfully than before. Because he  _had_ told Brian everything, he had told him everything -- about the pills, about the disorders, about his status as child-of-the-state and nothing more, about the fucking hospital. And Brian…

He swears he doesn't cry, but he does. Because it hurts to think about -- how Brian hurt him. Because if he had just  _asked,_ Tim would've helped. He would've. But Brian had just… used him. Used something that Tim hadn't even known he had entrusted him with. And it  _hurt,_ even after.

He brushes tears from his eyes, and realizes he's been standing, locked in place, in front of the store window for a few minutes too long. He can feel the ache in the back of his eyes, that familiar ache that he had not understood for so long. He thinks, somewhat giddily, that at least Brian helped him understand that.

Fuck. Brian's dead and even after a full fucking  _year,_ he's still… he still can't seem to face it. That his best friend would rather die, locked inside that horrible place, than just  _talk._

_If you had just listened to me! Did you not understand? Was that it? I trusted you! You could've said something! You could've said anything! I would've stopped, we would've gotten out -- together!_

_(...why did you leave me?)_

He shakes his head, bile climbing up his throat. He swallows back a groan; the press behind his eyes is becoming uncomfortable, the forever strange feeling of feet shuffling from heel to toe sending waves of foreign sensation through his head. He doesn't want it to happen. But then again, he didn't want it to ever,  _ever,_ happen.

He sighs, and his bones feel the weariness of it acutely. So many things he wishes he could forget, but the time of blackouts, blanks, and forgetfulness -- it's gone. He remembers, now, and can't forget. No matter how much it hurts him. No matter how many times he feels sick, sick that he's stopped in the middle of the street, drowning in memories just from one little thing that reminded him.

Reminded him of his first best friend.

Tim finally tugs his heavy head up, casting a nervous glance around. Nobody's staring, but the sun is lower in the sky; almost setting. He can still feel the impatient tapping inside his skull, and he knows that he'd really rather avoid doing…  _that_ out in public.

Tim turns away, the air settling heavily on his shoulders, memories still dripping in his mind's eye. He doesn't hear the muted jingle of bells, nor the creak of an old door opening. He's too far away in his own mind, too busy in the past. He doesn't see the face peering out, cheeks gaunt, blonde hair turned dull from late nights, eyes flickering.

The man looks out into the street, eyes searching for something -- searching for  _someone._ He could've sworn he'd seen someone he had left behind, someone he misses.

His heart stirs -- but Tim was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these two make me so sad ok


End file.
